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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27283789">late night devil (put your hands on me)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirerising/pseuds/vampirerising'>vampirerising</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(sort of), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comedian Richie Tozier, Everyone is mean to Richie on the Internet, Fate &amp; Destiny, Ghost Eddie Kaspbrak, Multi, Mutual Pining, Neibolt House, Or Is It?, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pennywise May or May Not Exist (IT), Richie calls his fans Trashcans, Richie moves into a haunted house, Serial killer mention, Social Media, Timelines, but he definitely got his start on Twitter/YouTube, but what is it?, mass murder mention, there sure is something in that house</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:01:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,294</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27283789</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirerising/pseuds/vampirerising</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>to: steve.m@gmail.com<br/>from: richietozier@gmail.com<br/>subject: moved into a haunted house lol</p><p>Steve, you will never believe what I accidentally just did. Is there a way to turn this into something marketable? I s2g I’ll set up cameras or whatever the team thinks is funny for this. Should I rebrand? I’m dying. Not even joking. I could die.</p><p>29 Neibolt Street. Apparently the most haunted house in the world? I don't know, I didn't research it.</p><p>-rich</p><p>--</p><p>When Richie moves into the house on Neibolt Street, he thinks he can pitch it as a Netflix comedy special. What he doesn't expect is a ghost named Eddie, a toxic darkness locked in his basement, and an onslaught of memories that may or may not be his own. Maybe he should've done some research before signing that year-long lease.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>late night devil (put your hands on me)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>a few things...</p><p>1) for anyone curious about what happened to the other thing i posted earlier this month, i deleted it. once again i did not do stan justice and i have a better idea. that will come out... eventually</p><p>2) this was supposed to be CUTE and FUNNY and based of off that netflix show julie and the phantoms but i have no capability for cute and funny during halloween time, so....</p><p>2a) my notes for Richie are literally "Kurtis Connor-type comedian" so do with that what you will</p><p>3) this will come out in installments, i just wanted to get something out before october ended. i don't know why it took me all month to do this</p><p>4) there's a lot of texting and no names in this so a key for you all:</p><p>Ben<br/><strong><em>Richie</em></strong><br/><em>Bev </em><br/><span class="u">Stan</span><br/><strong><span class="u">Patty</span></strong></p><p>5) title comes from 5 Seconds of Summer's "Teeth"</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><strong>Richie Trashmouth Tozier @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>LOL I did NOT just sign a lease on 29 Neibolt Street. I Did Not.</em></p><p><strong>Buzzfeed @Buzzfeed<br/></strong><em>Popular comedian</em> <em>@TRASHM0UTH does not do any research on his most recent move… Check out our ranking of the top ten most haunted houses in the world (and the movies and books inspired by them)!</em></p><p><strong>eboi kyle @666stepthefuckupkyle<br/></strong> <em>if @TRASHM0UTH fucking dies in his new house I will literally be SO mad. I just got tickets to see his next tour in PA</em></p><p><strong>bevvy @beaverlyswamp<br/></strong> <em>check out MY ranking of the top twenty stupid things @TRASHM0UTH has ever done in his life! I’ve known him for, like, ever, and accidentally signing a lease on a haunted house is not even #1</em></p><p><strong>Ben @hanscomben<br/></strong> <em>@beaverlyswamp you didn’t even put the time he thought he was taking aspirin but took oxycodone instead</em></p><p><strong>bevvy @beaverlyswamp<br/></strong> <em>@hanscomben srry bunny but that doesn’t make the top 20. the time he dropped acid to see if he could live Alice in Wonderland makes for a better story</em></p><p><strong>15 days </strong>❣️ <strong>@cjprime<br/></strong><em>@TRASHM0UTH is this like… part of ur set? are u going true crime comedy now?</em></p><p><strong>Richie Trashmouth Tozier @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@cjprime the possibilities are endless. imagine the shenanigans some ghosts and I could get into</em></p><p><strong>melanie </strong>👑 <strong>@MELibuRum<br/></strong><em>ok like I respect it but has @TRASHM0UTH even, like, looked into the house he’s supposedly moving into??? I did a real quick google search and it’s… not gr8. Get out while you still can, bro</em></p><p><strong>madeleine @maddddaboutyou<br/></strong> <em>@MELibuRum he def has a friend who would never let this happen, where is Stan @TRASHM0UTH</em></p><p><strong>Richie Trashmouth Tozier @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@maddddaboutyou @MELibuRum not answering my FaceTimes!!! He’s 75% of my impulse control so, @StanleyUris seems like this is your fault</em></p><p><strong>Stan. @StanleyUris<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH I hate when you tag me in things. I get so many followers. @ whatever Richie calls his fans—I’m not funny, but I guess I could do your taxes.</em></p><p><strong>Tyler @tylersucks<br/></strong> <em>@StanleyUris how much u charge man</em></p><p><strong>Richie Trashmouth Tozier @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@StanleyUris they’re called trashcans, thanks</em></p><p><strong>Richie Tozier Updates @trashmouthtweets<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH moves into one of the scariest places in the world. Fans are not pleased.</em></p><p><strong>JustJared.com @JustJared<br/></strong> <em>Richie Tozier reveals why he signed a year-long lease on 29 Neibolt Street.</em></p><p><strong>Buzzfeed @Buzzfeed<br/></strong> <em>21 hysterical things @TRASHM0UTH’s fans have said about his recent move.</em></p><p><strong>Pattycake @patriciablooms<br/></strong><em>I’m c r y i n g </em>🤣 🤣 🤣<em> RT @rchtzr: Elaborate plot to get the ghost twink boyfriend of @TRASHM0UTH’s dreams… starts NOW.</em></p><p><strong>bevvy @beaverlyswamp<br/></strong> <em>@rchtzr @patriciablooms WHERES THE LIE</em></p><p><strong>mat @smat<br/></strong> <em>YouTube link: Richie Tozier, Brooklyn, NY 10/13/18. He made this EXACT JOKE TWO YEARS AGO. it’s all about the long con baby</em></p><p><strong>Richie Trashmouth Tozier @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@smat that’s so richie, it’s the future I can see</em></p><p><strong>Richie Trashmouth Tozier @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>also huh. maybe i shouldn’t have told everyone where i lived</em></p><hr/><p><em> <strong>to: steve.m@gmail.com<br/></strong></em> <strong> <em>from: richietozier@gmail.com<br/></em> </strong> <strong> <em>subject: moved into a haunted house lol</em> </strong></p><p>
  <strong> <em>Steve, you will never believe what I accidentally just did. Is there a way to turn this into something marketable? I s2g I’ll set up cameras or whatever the team thinks is funny for this. Should I rebrand? I’m dying. Not even joking. I could die.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>29 Neibolt Street. Apparently the most haunted house in the world? I don't know, I didn't research it.</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <strong> <em>-rich</em> </strong>
</p><hr/><p>The day Richie moves into what Buzzfeed, the <em>haunted houses </em>feed on Reddit, and the, you know, general consensus of the American people deem the “Most Haunted House in History”—just like that, all caps, a title worthy of a king—it rains.</p><p>Which, you know, makes sense, given the context. Richie would hate if it were the perfect autumn day, so he’s glad to track mud into the spotless foyer of his new duplex. He’s less glad for the lack of help, his friends claiming moving on a Wednesday was <em>inconvenient </em>for them, but it’s not <em>his</em> fault the first ended up in the middle of the week. Good friends would take a long weekend and help him out.</p><p>Alas Richie has no good friends. Unfortunate he found out so late in life.</p><p>It takes him the better part of the morning, the rain going from a slight, if not annoying, drizzle, to a pelting thunderstorm, slamming against the windows Richie races around to shut. Boxes pile up around him, a tower by the front door, three lined up in front of the couch like a table, one with his clothes already spilling out of it by the foot of the stairs. He’s labeled none of them like the idiot he is, haphazardly placing them wherever he feels; kitchen supplies are the only ones he managed to mark, and those he kicks towards the room in question, too lazy to bring it all the way over.</p><p>He pulls off his hoodie, soaked and sticking to his skin, and drops at where he stands, shoving his hand in the wet denim of his jeans. He pulls his phone out, wiping the screen on his shirt, one with the insignia of some eighties band he’s not even sure he likes, and blindly types in Stan’s phone number.</p><p>It rings—once, twice, three times—and just as Richie starts to get indignant that Stan isn’t going to answer, just as he’s deciding to call Stan’s <em>girlfriend </em>instead, the call is picked up.</p><p>“I’m at <em>work,” </em>Stan greets sourly.</p><p>“You’re”—and Richie checks his watch before finishing this sentence—“at <em>lunch, </em>so stop being so snippy.”</p><p>Stan snuffle-snorts. “I didn’t realize you had my schedule memorized.”</p><p>“Our Google calendars are synched, man,” Richie replies. “I know about every meeting you have, so I <em>know</em> you have an extended lunch after your kickass… accountant meeting thing you had today.”</p><p>“And?” Stan asks.</p><p>Richie purses his lips like he’s about to give a kiss and runs his fingers through his hair, wet at the ends. “Are you <em>huuuuuungy?”</em></p><p>“I’m hung<em>ry, </em>if that’s what you mean,” Stan snips. “What the fuck is <em>hungy,</em> Richie? What are you, twelve?”</p><p>“Sometimes,” he replies. “Do you want to be, I don’t know, hung<em>ry</em> together?”</p><p>Pause. Sigh. The killing of an engine, seemingly louder than it really is. “I already picked up your order from the deli,” Stan admits. “Got turned around twice, but that’s what you get for living this far up. Let me in.”</p><p>“Oh, yay!” Richie exclaims, ending the call unceremoniously, dropping his phone on a box labeled <em>xmas,</em> which most certainly is not Christmas decorations. He doesn’t own any. He throws open his front door, the wind hitting him right in the face with hard rain, and waits for Stan to take his sweet-ass time getting from his car to the door. “Stan,” he greets, “Derry’s number one accountant man!”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s definitely wrong,” Stan replies, lingering on the doorstep. He pushes onto his toes, looking over and around Richie into the space. Frowns. <em>“This </em>is the most haunted house in the country?”</p><p>“Varies on what you read,” Richie says. “Some say country. Others say the New England area. I’m not sure which to believe. I’m not exactly versed in haunted houses.” He makes grabby hands at the plastic bags in swinging from Stan’s fingers. “Whatcha get me?”</p><p>Stan pulls them away before Richie can take hold. “First, I’d like to establish that I am <em>not</em> here to help you move,” he dictates. “I’m only here to eat and keep you company.”</p><p>“I’m so very touched.” Richie presses a hand to his chest. “But I know it’s only because Patty’s taking a working lunch today. I’m merely your second choice.” He grins at Stan’s perturbed glance. “I synched her calendar too. And Bev’s. And Ben’s. I know where everyone is. I’m clingy.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, you’re not wrong about that,” Stan agrees. “What surface are we eating on?”</p><p>Richie waves an arm around. “Pick a box, any box, my dear Stan the Man,” he replies grandly. “I haven’t assembled my table. Don’t know where it is, actually.” He steps closer to him, invades his space. “What’d you get me?”</p><p>“That chicken cutlet shit you like with the bacon,” Stan says. “You got plates?”</p><p>“Somewhere. Jalapenos?”</p><p>“Yeah, I got all your gross addons, don’t worry,” Stan replies. “I also asked for paper plates and plastic utensils, so… you’re welcome.”</p><p>Richie hums contentedly and steals a kiss upon Stan’s cheek. “My hero,” he coos.</p><p>“Gross,” Stan mutters, though he does not wipe it off. He meticulously unpacks their lunches, still bundled in his coat, dripping a puddle at his feet and against the rolled up carpet his mother sent from their basement back home; it’s a red multi-colored thing he’s not even sure he wants, but… a rug’s a rug.</p><p>Atop the closest pile of boxes, Stan unloads two sandwiches, a tiny plastic baggie of pickles, and a medium-sized thing of potato salad. They eat in relative silence, Richie asking about Stan’s day, which was boring and full of meetings, and Stan pretending like he’s not interested in how Richie plans to unpack.</p><p>When it becomes clear he’s got no idea, Stan, despite his previous declaration, ends up sorting through the various boxes around them, not exactly going through them, but labelling them for future use with a Sharpie he finds in his pocket.</p><p>Richie takes a picture of him, elbow deep in a box of books, and sends it in their group chat.</p><p><em> <strong>(12:48) remember when he said he wouldn’t help me unpack on a Wednesday</strong><br/></em> <em>(12:50) stan’s always been a little liar<br/></em> <em>(12:50) when richie calls stan comes running. how does it feel to be second best pats?<br/></em> <em> <strong> <span class="u">(12:51) stan and richie share a very special bond I will never get between. I know where I stand 🤗</span> </strong> </em></p><p>“You’re not going to do a single thing today, are you?” Stan asks, unfolding himself until the proper standing position.</p><p>Richie shrugs, pulling a book out of that very box and wondering why the fuck he has it. “Probably not,” he says. “Planning on ordering my weight in pizza later, you know, since my friends won’t help me with all of this.”</p><p>“I’m literally <em>labeling </em>these things for you,” Stan complains. “Are you even—do you hear yourself?”</p><p>“Alright, whatever,” Richie says. “I guess I’d like to at least make my bed and start unpacking my clothes, but as you can see… I don’t exactly know where all that stuff is.”</p><p>Stan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, and tilts his chin up. “You see, I <em>told </em>you to organize your shit, label your boxes, and move in slowly, not all at once, but <em>noooo,</em> why would you ever listen to me?” he asks. “<em>Should I move into a haunted house, Stan? </em>No, Richie, you shouldn’t. <em>Oops, too late! Should I move in exactly on the first? </em>No, you should start the weekend before, maybe get some movers to take your mattress and shit in first—”</p><p>Richie pokes him in the bicep. “I wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d just—<em>not</em> wanted to live with Patty only,” he reminds him. “You and your dumb heterosexual relationship ruined my life.”</p><p>“Ben and Bev are also in a relationship,” Stan points out.</p><p>“Yeah, and <em>they</em> offered me their guest room!”</p><p>“So why didn’t you take it?” Stan asks. “Why are we <em>here? </em>Do you know what kinds of shit went down here?”</p><p>“Yuck, like I want to be around their super healthy, always communicating their feelings relationship? No fucking thanks, man, I’d rather barf.” Richie exaggerates a shudder at the thought. “And no. I didn’t look up anything. That’s what I have <em>you</em> for, but as we’ve established you weren’t picking up my FaceTimes.”</p><p>Stan clicks his tongue. “An error I will never make again, I assure you,” he vows. “Come on. I have about thirty more minutes. Let’s see if we can at least make your bed.”</p><p>“You are such a little liar,” Richie replies fondly.</p><p>“Yeah, whatever, I want you to sleep comfortably in your little haunted mansion,” Stan grumbles.</p><p>“You just don’t want me crashing on your couch tonight, you mean.”</p><p>“That, too.” Stan shovels a spoonful of potato salad in his mouth. Smacks his lips. “Any idea where you would’ve put that box? I’ve labeled all the ones in here.”</p><p>“No clue,” Richie says. “I had no help, remember?”</p><p>Stan rolls his eyes. “It’s still your fault, no matter how you try to swing it.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Richie replies. “Pretend like I don’t have terrible friends.”</p><p>“Oh, shut <em>up.” </em>Stan laughs. “We’re coming over this weekend to help you with the worst of it. No one’s abandoned you.”</p><p>“Sure, that’s why I’m the one living alone and my other friends are all shacked up,” Richie retorts. “That’s abandonment one-oh-one.”</p><p>“So sorry we didn’t have another friend who is wildly your type and completely compatible with you,” Stan snarks. “Now, please think back to when you first got here. Did you go upstairs at all? Do you think your sheets are up there? Where are your clothes?”</p><p>Richie lifts his arms up, a gigantic shrug. “It’s possible. I don’t remember, though. I thought my clothes were where you’re standing, but. There are <em>so many boxes and only one of me…”</em></p><p>“Your dramatics don’t work on me,” Stan says. “I’m immune at this point.” He pokes Richie square in the cheek, making him squawk. “You check the kitchen because you’re a moron and I’ll go upstairs. I need to make it back to work before the hour’s up.”</p><p>“Right, yeah, yeah,” Richie says, traipsing over to the other side of the first floor. The only box here is the one he’d somehow labeled himself, full of pots and pans and the pair of incredibly burnt oven mitts. He probably needs to get new ones. There’s a half-empty, watered-down Dunkin Donuts iced coffee sitting on the counter and his headphones tangled next to it. His keys, for some reason, are on the floor. A tablecloth he doesn’t remember ever owning or buying is laid out neatly on the table he’d lugged in hours ago.</p><p>So he lied to Stan about that one. <em>Oops. </em></p><p>It’s been a long ass morning and Stan is expecting him to know where his <em>sheets</em> are? He doesn’t even know where he took his shoes off.</p><p>
  <em>(They’re in the hall closet, right by the front door.)</em>
</p><p>He shrugs with a hum, rifling through the box of munchkins he’d picked up, and biting into a tiny, jelly-filled donut, when Stan shouts, “Richie, are you <em>fucking </em>with me?”</p><p>“I mean,” Richie yells back, swallowing hard, “constantly, but what’d I do this time?”</p><p>“All your shit, it’s—” Stan stops, probably lets out that gritted teeth shriek of his. Continues. “Get your ass up here. I’m gonna hit you.”</p><p>“Well, now I don’t wanna,” Richie snips, slipping out of the kitchen, through the mess of his living room, and climbing the stairs two at a time. “What,” he starts, entering his bedroom, one of, like, four rooms on this floor. “Wait. <em>What?”</em></p><p>Stan stands there, hands on his hips, brow furrowed so deeply it looks like it could get stuck there, and replies, “Yeah, that’s what I’d like to know.”</p><p>Around them, Richie’s bedroom is perfectly made. Boxes he hadn’t even been aware he’d brought inside, let alone <em>upstairs, </em>are piled nicely in the corner, away from view. His curtains are hung up, the top of his dresser is full of shit he uses on the daily—lotion, face moisturizer Bev got him, deodorant, his watch—and the bed is perfectly made, no crease in sight. Pillows are fluffed to perfection. The blanket his mom knitted him is folded into one of those fancy triangles at the end of the mattress. Even the pictures of him and the rest of his friends are stuck to the corkboard wall piece he has, though they are arranged in such an odd way as if there are images missing, which Richie knows there aren’t. Every year Bev and Patty print out more for him to hang up and he never questions it or takes any of them down. They’re all there, so why does it look like…</p><p>
  <em>(“Welcome to the Losers Club, asshole!”)</em>
</p><p>Richie blinks. Catches Stan’s gaze. “What?” he asks again.</p><p>“What do you mean <em>what?” </em>Stan demands. “Richie, your entire room is set up.”</p><p>“I see that,” Richie says, “and not in any way <em>I</em> would have done. Do you see these corners? It’s like one of those—what do they call them? Hospital corners? My mom used to make my bed like this, dude.”</p><p>Stan quirks a brow. “Your mom definitely did not make your bed like this,” he replies. “Not to knock your mom, but she was more of the <em>just make sure it’s presentable </em>types, not… neurotic.”</p><p>Richie runs a hand along his comforter, shuffling about the room, and throws open his closet doors, where all of his pants and dressier shirts are hung neatly and color-coordinated.</p><p>“There’s only one logical explanation for this,” Richie declares. “Open the drawers, Stan.”</p><p>“I don’t want to.”</p><p>“Do it.”</p><p>Stan sighs, but does as he’s told, says, deadpan, “Your stuff is folded in here too.”</p><p>“I knew it.”</p><p>“Don’t say it.”</p><p>“This is only the work of a <em>ghost,” </em>Richie says grandly. “I would never do any of this shit.”</p><p>“You immediately think ghost and not—” Stan peers into a drawer. “No, you’re right. A ghost did this. This shirt is pressed <em>so </em>immaculately. And your socks are so perfectly balled up? Oh my god, Rich, you’re living with a <em>ghost maid.”</em></p><p>“Why are you suddenly interested in my haunted house now?”</p><p>Stan shrugs a shoulder. “I thought this place would be oozing blood or whatever they do in movies,” he says, “or, like, be all cold and creepy with a weird neighbor like in <em>American Horror Story.”</em></p><p>“Most haunted houses are just… houses,” Richie replies. “And they’re very rarely haunted. People just freak out about them based on what happened in them, like the Amityville house.”</p><p>“And what happened here, Rich?” Stan asks, closing the drawers and opening others. He whistles at the organization, the nerd he is.</p><p>“No idea,” Richie says, “don’t want to know. Do not tell me if you do—”</p><p>“—I don’t—”</p><p>“—just that there seems to be a very neat ghost rooming with me,” Richie finishes. “If this is the kind of haunting I’m gonna get, I’ll take it. It’s practical. It’s funny. It means less work for me.” He clasps his hands together and raises his head, unsure where the ghost is, who the ghost is, or if they even want anything to do with him.</p><p>But they must, if they’re putting his house together.</p><p>“I appreciate you,” he says, loud and overenunciated. “I don’t even know you yet and you are a much better friend than the ones I already have.”</p><p>Richie’s ears prick at the soft sound that flutters through the air, wrapping around him and twisting through his hair. “Did you hear that?” he asks.</p><p>“No,” Stan replies.</p><p>“It was a laugh!” Richie insists. “The ghost laughed!”</p><p>Stan shoots him a look. “There was nothing, Richie,” he says. “If anything, it was the wind.” He points behind him. “Your window’s open.”</p><p>Richie sniffs, turning to close it, suddenly cold, and retorts, “It was the ghost and I love him.”</p><p>The sound comes back again, this time capturing Stan’s attention, who twists his head in the direction of the hall. He sniffs, pretending he didn’t do it when Richie stares at him.</p><p>Says, “If you love him so much, have him help you unpack all your shit this weekend.”</p><p>“What makes you think it’s a boy ghost?” Richie questions. <em>Oh, be a boy ghost, </em>he finds himself thinking. <em>Be a cute boy ghost.</em></p><p>“I… it sounded…” Stan clears his throat. “You know what, you’re right. That was insensitive of me. If you love <em>them </em>so much, have them help you unpack all your shit this weekend. You don’t need us then.”</p><p>“No, Stan, don’t go! I love you most!”</p><p>“While that may be true, I do have to go to work,” Stan calls up the stairs, racing down them as quickly as he can. “Call me if your ghost decides they don’t want to help. Maybe I’ll show up!”</p><hr/><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>just met my ghost! adorable</em></p><p><strong>jenn @jjsimp<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH what do they look like king</em></p><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@jjsimp no idea, but look at how they folded my socks, i’m gonna cry</em></p><p><strong>bevvy @beaverlyswamp<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH whipped</em></p><p><strong>Ben @hanscomben<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH didn’t know ghosts could fold socks</em></p><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@hanscomben my guy is truly so talented, no one comes close</em></p><p><strong>bevvy @beaverlyswamp<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH again: whipped &amp; u haven’t even seen them yet</em></p><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@beaverlyswamp ok january embers</em></p><p><strong>bevvy @beaverlyswamp<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH cuter than socks</em></p><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@beaverlyswamp debatable</em></p><hr/><p>
  <em>Richie Tozier’s Instagram Live Ends on a Bone-Chilling Note </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Earlier this month, comedian Richie Tozier dropped the bomb that he’d signed the lease on what people are calling the most haunted house in the United States. While many have questioned his sanity, which is nothing new—this comedian does anything and everything at least once—others are worried about Tozier’s safety, given what happened to the past inhabitants of 29 Neibolt Street. And if you know your Derry history, the reason the house has become as infamous as it is. Although the original structure is no longer standing, many believe the evil surrounding it remains in the area, as seen by the lack of wildlife, consistently dead grass, and general lack of upkeep—not that this description doesn’t describe Maine in a nutshell. It’s always winter here.</em>
</p><p><em>Today, Tozier gave us our first look at his new home, tweeting with fans over his supposed encounter with one of the many ghosts of Neibolt. This is a friendly one, it seems, having folded his socks and made his bed. It’s the kind of ghost </em>I’d <em>like to live with, if I were stupid enough to move into a known haunted house. Sorry, Richie!</em></p><p>
  <em>Though it isn’t that cute story that’s gotten the Internet in a tizzy. It’s what happened hours later, when Tozier went live on his own. The video has since disappeared, but a dedicated fan has sent us a link. Click below for more.</em>
</p><hr/><p>
  <em> <strong>five idiots, one chat </strong> </em>
</p><p><span class="u">(4:37) Richie what the FUCK was that<br/></span><em>(4:37) lol what’d he do now?<br/></em><em>(4:37) did the ghost wipe down the counters<br/></em><span class="u">(4:40) you weren’t watching his live?<br/></span><em>(4:41) nooooo lol I stopped that years ago, they’re pointless<br/></em><em>(4:41) wait were you? You’re at WORK, mr accountant<br/></em>(4:45) I saw it. I tried calling him. The phone picks up and it’s just wind.<br/><em>(4:46) what<br/></em>(4:46) I thought I heard another voice but I can’t make it out. I’m gonna try again<br/><em>(4:47) SOMEONE WANT TO EXPLAIN<br/></em><em><strong><span class="u">(4:51) check the Richie Tozier update account<br/></span></strong></em><em>(4:51) which one<br/></em><em><strong><span class="u">(4:52) doesn’t matter. All of them<br/></span></strong></em><span class="u">(4:59) Richie I am on my way to your house. You better not be dead or I’ll be so pissed.<br/></span><em><strong>(5:00) no don’t. you can’t<br/></strong></em><span class="u">(5:00) what the duck do you mean I can’t<br/></span><em><strong>(5:02) not safe. Talk tomorrow.\<br/></strong></em><em>(5:08) I know this is in poor taste but can I make fun of the duck?<br/></em><em>(5:09) also are we in agreement that there’s more than just sock ghost in Richie’s house?</em></p><hr/><p>The rain continues. Wind roars, shaking the windowpanes and whistling through cracks in the glass. Richie tugs on something warmer, pushes himself off his bed, and decides to make himself some tea. If he isn’t going to unpack, he’s going to get himself comfortable, maybe watch a few movies in his nicely set-up room… but not before he gives his fans (and Steve, who keeps pestering him for <em>better content)</em> a quick tour of his new place.</p><p>Not like he’s figured much out yet.</p><p>It’s not like he hasn’t gone live on Instagram before, it’s just that… it never really mattered. He answers questions, mostly, and workshops jokes before they’re about to be scrapped or put in his next show. His relationship with his fans is different than most; sometimes working out what he wants to say with them helps him out more than sitting with a bunch of people who supposedly “sound” like him and know how to turn one sliver of a thought into something he can sell. Though he did historically fire his entire writing team a year back when they refused to take his actual material into consideration, so…</p><p>He checks his hair, making sure it’s not a complete rat’s nest, cleans the fingerprints from his glasses, and goes live. It doesn’t matter what he looks like, not really; they never get a flattering camera angle from him to begin with, and it’s not like he’s going to show most of his face.</p><p>“Afternoon, Trashcans,” he says, fiddling with his glasses. They’re lopsided. “I’ve gotten a fair share of questions that need pressing answers, but first thing’s first: Yes, I do desperately need milk, and no, I only drink almond. Please leave it on my doorstep. I’ll wave from the other side of the locked door.”</p><p>He twists around, flipping the camera. “This is what my room looks like. I’ve done absolutely nothing except make that person-sized dent in that immaculate comforter.” He turns the camera back on him. “Don’t use that footage for anything other than admiring my ghost roommate’s bed making skills. If I find out you’ve been getting freaky to a four second video of my bed I will scream. Continuing the tour…”</p><p>He clunks his way down the stairs, showing off his bare walls <em>(“Any art recommendations? Like weird shit, not </em>Starry Night.<em>”)</em>, his box collection, which feels like it’s grown <em>(“It was like Tetris, Stan was no help! Oh, Stan says… that’s not nice, Stan.”),</em> and ends up in his kitchen, where he tugs at his sweatshirt, pulling the hood up and over his head.</p><p>“It’s pretty cold down here,” he says. “I don’t know if the heat’s even on, I should check that, or if it just doesn’t reach this part of the house. There’s also this window here. I could, like, I don’t know, insulate—oh, wait—<em>did you know Betty Ripsom’s body was drained of blood in that very kitchen—“ </em>Richie wrinkles his nose. “No, I did not, but it wasn’t <em>this </em>kitchen. This kitchen is new. Nothing bad has happened here.”</p><p>The comments keep coming in so quick he loses track of ones he was reading as others come to debunk the originals. <em>Only one body was ever found, </em>says someone named GriffinGaff, <em>and it was in pieces. Took years to identify. Just limbs. </em></p><p>Another says <em>but Betty really was drained of her blood! Remember the vampire scare of 96?</em></p><p>Richie laughs. <em>“RealCeceHalpert </em>wants to know if you were even old enough to have lived through the vampire scare of ninety-six. I was, like, two so I’m of no help there.”</p><p>He lets them all duke it out, unhelpful in that regard—and maybe he should’ve looked up the history of this place before jumping on its notoriety and cheap, <em>cheap </em>rent. He could’ve bought it for less than he’s renting for a year but he’s not in <em>this </em>for the long haul. Just for some laughs. Some jump scares he’ll have to create if nothing happens beyond his neat freak ghost… and speaking of…</p><p>“I wonder what kind of tea my ghost likes,” he says aloud again, glancing at his phone screen. It looks like Stan’s getting into a fight with someone named <em>richiesnotfunny, </em>who Richie can’t tell is a fan or not. Regardless they won’t give him their handle which is some bullshit; it’s the funniest thing Richie’s ever seen. Because he’s not funny. Not always. “Weigh in on this, people, you can play with Stan later on Twitter. He loves banter.”</p><p>He sifts through his tea collection, packed away in this cute little box his mother gave him. “We’ve established I don’t have milk so herbal teas will have to do,” he says. “Is Sock Boy a peppermint boy, a camomile boy, or something crazy like apple cinnamon?” He looks directly into the camera, staring straight into the lens, and then looks up. “My dearest ghost,” he calls, “I would like to share tea with you. What does your heart des—“</p><p>A peppermint teabag is lifted—not by Richie’s hands—and thrown right into his face, catching him somehow beneath his glasses and in the corner of his eye.</p><p>The live goes crazy, from what he can see.</p><p>“Well, you didn’t have to be so violent about it,” Richie mutters. He pushes his glasses into his hair, rubbing at his eye. “I swear he wasn’t like this before. He has the most angelic laugh I have ever—shut <em>up, </em>Stan, it was not the w—what do you mean <em>do I hear that? </em>I don’t hear anything. Also I have no idea where my teapot is so I’m gonna have to do this the way my mom hates and microwave the water—“</p><p>But then he hears it. A rattle.</p><p>No, not a rattle. A <em>song? </em>Like something he’d hear at Christmas? Jingles? No, that’s not it…</p><p>Is it—<em>a circus?</em></p><p>Or at least something to do with a carnival.</p><p>He’d blame neighbors but he hasn’t got any, and certainly there is no one around that knows his name… or who would say it like that. All <em>Riiiiiiiichie,</em> like it’s appetizing for him.</p><p>Even so, he peers out the window he has to insulate and double checks he didn’t accidentally go live with Bev, who’d definitely pull this shit, and finds himself terribly alone.</p><p>He swallows, pushing buttons on the microwave, and says as casually as he can, “That’s what you heard or am I bugging?”</p><p><em>BUGGING, </em>Stan says in all-caps. Richie ignores him.</p><p>It sounds again, closer this time, and Richie abandons his task for reasons unbeknownst to him to follow it. It gets louder the closer he gets to this dark, wooden door, and he wants to—oh, he really wants to—</p><p><em>“I know your secret,” </em>the voice warbles, off-key and sing-song. <em>“Your dirty little secret.”</em></p><p>“Hm,” he says. “This ghost seems to know more about me than the other one. Unfortunately he’s incorrect, my favorite All-American Rejects song is not—“</p><p>The knob shakes. Moves like there’s something on the other end trying to break free, and through the opening between the door and the floor, an inky black substance emerges, oozing towards Richie’s feet. He takes a step back, heart pounding. His mouth is too dry to make a joke and he has one, it’s right there on the tip of his tongue. He’s gonna make a comparison to that Disney movie (movie<em>s, </em>plural, there’s a sequel) with those twins, but… but…</p><p>The camera can’t see how this substance eats up his floor, how it knows every step Richie is going to take before Richie even takes it, following him around until he’s pinned to the wall.</p><p>“Ghost number two, ladies and gentlemen,” he provides. “Don’t know what I’ll call him, but it’s definitely nothing—<em>ow! Motherfucker—“</em></p><p>“Riiiichie,” this thing says again. “The door is locked but if you want to play, you can easily come in… Come in, Richie, come in… I’m so <em>looonely </em>down here all by myself.</p><p>“Uh, not today,” Richie replies. “I just got here and I haven’t even unpacked and I was really looking forward to my—“ The beeping of his microwave makes him shriek. He covers his mouth with both hands, chest pounding. “Rain check, maybe?”</p><p>“But it’s raining now,” the blackness says. “What better time to die than during a thunderstorm?”</p><p>“I mean, no lies detected there, but I really feel like this isn’t the <em>time—“</em></p><p>“Suit yourself,” the thing interrupts, and the ooze rears back as if ready to pounce, as if it has big, slimy fangs eager to rip him apart.</p><p><em>“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” </em>a different voice shouts, but the dark ooze has already wrapped itself around one of Richie’s ankles, feeling like a snake, little fangs digging into his skin. Is it poisonous? Is he really going to die? He just got here.</p><p>He blinks against the pain surging through his body and settling in his eyes and tries to make out the shape of the person in front of him, standing tall and proud, no ounce of fear in his shoulders, in the slope of his neck.</p><p>Richie stares at it, the way the hair clings there, curling slightly. How golden it is from some mysterious sun. How freckles dot the length of it like constellations.</p><p>He blurts out, “Eds?” just as his vision goes hazy, the room spinning out of control, and he drops right into the black fog that covers his floor. Though this time, it doesn’t hurt, just covers him like a blanket.</p><hr/><p>
  <em> <strong>five idiots, one chat</strong> </em>
</p><p><em>(5:15) who’s eds???<br/></em><em>(5:15) do we know an eds?<br/></em><em><strong><span class="u">(5:17) that’s tbd<br/></span></strong></em><em>(5:18) meaning<br/></em>(5:18) meaning I’m looking into it babe<br/><em><strong>(5:20) don’t. please<br/></strong></em><span class="u">(5:21) Richie?<br/></span><em><strong>(5:21) no.<br/></strong>(5:22) love this development</em></p><hr/><p>Richie is running.</p><p>It’s a steady jog. Easy. Tension slides from his shoulders, is plucked from his muscles, as the trees close in on him, blocking the rest of Derry from view. This is one of his favorite things to do, an escape from everything that’s bothering him—just his thoughts (simple, brain practically empty) and the pounding bassline of whatever music is playing in his headphones. He made a mixed tape for this and never knows what, exactly, he’s listening to.</p><p>His feet take on the familiar path, beaten into the cold dirt of Bassey Park from runners before him. He knows instinctively when to turn, where a root is blocking his way, where a hole has been dug by some animal or another. He takes it all in stride, running fast into a sprint and then slowing, as if he can outrace the jittery feelings taking over him. He knows better than to make her angry. Than to make her suspicious, but he’s so tired of her little comments here and there.</p><p><em>You can’t be thinking of moving away from me. You can’t consider </em>that<em> career path, it doesn’t pay well, you’re still working at that auto repair shop? You need to think about me, take care of me, I’m sick, I’m—</em></p><p>No.</p><p>He speeds up.</p><p>
  <em>Those boys deserve it. They were queer, you know. No place for them here. You aren’t still hanging around with that awful Denbrough boy, are you? No good for you. Neither is that Hanlon kid. Rumors have it they were caught… together… you know, out back by the movie theatre… wouldn’t want you to get sucked into that nonsense… I bet their parents are devastated. Embarrassed…</em>
</p><p>He almost misses a very obvious hole, jumping over it at the last second. He ignores the way his ankle smarts when he lands and continues on, pushing past the unwanted thoughts, drowning out the sound of—</p><p>It’s <em>Last Thing on My Mind. </em>Steps.</p><p>Ignore it. The thoughts. They’re stupid. Unnecessary. It’s why he’s running right now. To get away from them, to find some sort of sense, clarity. To see them as they are (wrong) on the other side of town (as far away as he can get, tied to her as he is).</p><p>So he runs, and he keeps on running until he’s so exhausted he doesn’t know his own name. His legs feel like jelly, his knees ache, and the rest of him is angry he hadn’t listened to it forever ago (the tape ended) and stopped. He wipes a shaky hand through his hair, lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe at his sweaty forehead, and considers when he has to bend over to breathe properly that maybe—<em>maybe—</em>he pushed it a little too hard.</p><p>But she pushed first.</p><p>
  <em>But I shouldn’t push myself because she bothers me. I should find a way to distance myself without hurting her feelings. I should ask—</em>
</p><p>He emerges into the bustle of Derry again, sun shining as hard as it can amidst the winter weather advisory, hidden behind fluffy clouds that promise snow. He looks up, panting, stretching his arms over his head, and does a few high knees to get the blood flowing again, to make his legs fully functional.</p><p>A car whips past him, a name is slung out the window, and he ignores it as he ignores everything. As he ignored the bullies and jeers from sixth grade on. He’s not the only one stuck here, but it’s not for lack of trying. Bowers and his gang know they could do no better than Derry, Maine. One day they’ll get murdered here for being complete fucking idiots and that’s—it’s not mean, it’s just the facts.</p><p>He pulls a water bottle out of his sweatpants pocket and sips idly, walking back home, or to the coffee shop, or to wherever Mike and Bill can be found. The library, maybe. He ran pretty far out this time and as tired as he is, he takes it slow, zigging and zagging through fields and parking lots as shortcuts to get back to Main Street. He makes a left down Neibolt, the easiest way to cut time in half, and it is like a switch goes off when he makes the distinctive step over some invisible boundary.</p><p>The world is different here. As easy as he wants it to be, as simple as it feels when he’s running. He forgets what he’s meant to do, what his plans are, and basks in the <em>tranquility </em>he feels. It’s like all of his worries, all the weight on his shoulders, is gone. He crumples the water bottle in his hand, all but dropping it to the ground, when he spots the source of the comfort. Of the light.</p><p>The house ahead. <em>29, </em>the door says, numbers shining and new.</p><p>He takes a step forward, interested in the way the building itself curves and hugs the world around it. The architecture is interesting: towers and spires, gothic in a way that should ward him away but doesn’t. It’s intriguing—spiked gate surrounding a dying yard, though flowers and plants still poke out here and there, native to Derry in November (he doesn’t know they aren’t). Christmas string lights are hung all about, wrapped around the porch railings and nestled in wreaths. He moves ever closer, spying essentially, peering into the windows, lit golden by candle flame, and is hardly surprised when the door opens wide.</p><p>The warmth that comes from the house is nothing he has ever experienced before. The <em>safety. </em>If he goes in, he’ll be comfortable. He’ll be welcome. He’s never had a home like that before. And there is… are those… freshly baked chocolate chip cookies? The smell wafts towards him, surrounds him; the power of the house wraps around him like a rope, pulling him in, leading him to salvation—or at least a place to rest.</p><p>He unlocks the gate with shaky hands, unable to see how dirty and rusted it is, and walks up the path, weeds neglected and up to his knees on either side. He climbs the steps to the porch, weathered down and creaking, right up to the front door, which is not open. The house is abandoned, boarded up, under control of the government until they figure out what to do with it. It’s a hazard, a lawsuit waiting to happen; there are holes in the wood everywhere, one side of the house is literally held up by one strong pole and sheer will. No one comes here unless they are dared, strung out, or homeless, and even then—<em>even then—</em>they are rarely seen again.</p><p>But he does not know any of this. At least right now.</p><p>All he knows is <em>escape from her.</em></p><p>All he sees is welcoming light and a home that feels as it should.</p><p>His hand is on the doorknob, the door closed in real time, and he twists it just as he passes over the threshold.</p><p><em>What are you looking for, Eddie? </em>the house seems to ask.</p><p>“A place to belong,” he replies, emotionless. Robotic.</p><p><em>Welcome to your salvation, </em>it replies.</p><p>He pushes the door open and enters.</p><p>Everything is as perfect.</p><p>Everything is awful.</p><p>Mildew mixes with cinnamon. A draft blows a candle out. The fireplace dies. Floorboards have rotted holes between them, covered with a threadbare rug. Somewhere in the distance, the scuttling of mice is heard. A creaking sound a floor above, where a spiraling staircase leads, makes him look up.</p><p>He barely has any time to scream before a black shadow races down to the lower level and swallows him whole. His Walkman falls with a clatter by his feet; the headphones tangle, buttons are pressed as they hit the floor, and a song starts.</p><p>
  <em>And I’d give up forever to touch you—</em>
</p><p>Richie shoots up, shrieking, cold sweat covering every inch of him. His pajamas cling to his shoulder blades, his lower back, the skin behind his knees. His heart pounds hard and fast in every crevice he has, including his ass, where it seems to have made a home.</p><p>The TV reflects brightly at him, a black screen with tiny words over it, no doubt Netflix asking if he’s still watching, which he <em>will be in one goddamn second, thank you very much.</em> He grabs his glasses from where they fell off his face into the sheets and shoves them back on, blinking a few times to reorient himself.</p><p>With his remote pointed to the screen, prepared to continue his binge, it takes him three tries to truly understand what’s being broadcasted to him.</p><p><em>Get out before it’s too late. </em>The only options are yes… or yes.</p><p>Richie presses the home button over and over, clearing the screen, and is not met with other apps like he normally is, but rather: <em>You don’t know the whole story. You don’t know a thing.</em></p><p>He shrieks again, whipping his glasses off and powering the TV down. Just as he’s getting ready to burrow under his comforter, to hide until morning, he thinks he sees the figure of a boy in the doorway, hidden by shadows.</p><p>Richie makes eye contact with it, feels it look right through him, right into his heart of hearts, and vaguely remembers that thing he read. What was it? <em>Don’t let them know you can see them. </em>He should get an Academy Award for the performance he puts on, an <em>Emmy, </em>at least, as he slowly lowers back down, biting back his trembling fear, and pulls the blankets up to his ear. He does not turn away from the doorway, trying to rationalize it in his mind, but there are no jackets there. Nothing for him to confuse himself with. There really <em>is</em> someone standing there.</p><p>But he will not let them know he sees them, even though he’s seen him before. He’s acknowledged him. He’s—</p><p>
  <em>Eds? </em>
</p><p>And the way he looked at him, so surprised…</p><p>For as long as Richie can manage, he watches them. They do not move, just lingering between the hall and his room, almost as if they are supervising his sleep… and when Richie wakes the next morning, they’re gone and his TV is functioning normally once again.</p><p>But there is something new in his joke book, flipped open to the most recent page. In handwriting he’s never seen, one of his most recent thoughts is crossed out, an arrow pointed to it with the words <em>This is not funny. </em>Beneath it, the joke is fixed in neat, block letters. All caps.</p><p>Under that, it reads, in the same handwriting: <em>Derry Unsolved: Neibolt House, Derry Serial Killer, Ghosts of Maine, </em>and a URL.</p><p>Tinier still, it says, <em>If you have any questions, Friday 7 PM. Make spaghetti.</em></p><hr/><p>
  <em> <strong>five idiots, one chat </strong> </em>
</p><p><strong> <em>(7:44) coffee after work no exceptions </em><br/></strong> <em>(7:44) Richie?<br/></em> <em> <strong>(7:44) yeah it’s me<br/></strong> </em> <em>(7:45) who tf is Eds and wtf happened to you during your live<br/></em> <em> <strong>(7:47) that’s not important right now<br/></strong> </em> <strong> <em> <span class="u">(7:50) pretty sure you almost died babe<br/></span> </em> </strong> <strong> <em>(7:51) well cross that bridge when we get to it. coffee 5:30</em> </strong></p><hr/><p>They pass the notebook between them, huddled into a corner table at Brewed Awakening, their favorite coffee shop (and the only one that serves the oat milk Bev likes). Five of them hardly fit here on a good day, but with all the old newspapers Ben hauled from the library and the various laptops and iPads, there isn’t even space for the drinks they ordered.</p><p>Richie shoots Sally an apologetic smile when she shows up with the tray and sits with his iced mocha between his legs. The chill simultaneously calms and worsens his jitters. He taps his foot, stops when Stan kicks him, and taps it again. Patty puts hers on top of his shoe, pressing lightly, leaving it there.</p><p>“I’ll give your ghost this,” Stan says, “the joke is now funny.”</p><p>“Let me see,” Bev requests, holding her hand out. “Are we sure this isn’t just Richie’s handwriting but different? He has no distinctive way of writing.”</p><p>Ben points to the paper in the middle of the table, held down by a tiny container of packaged sugars. “Those are all the various ways he could’ve written anything,” he says. “He doesn’t write in these weird caps. His handwriting’s a shitshow. Sorry, man.”</p><p>“No, yeah, you’re right,” Richie replies. “My agent makes me type everything because he can’t read for shit.”</p><p>“What does this even <em>say?” </em>Patty asks, pushing herself up to take a closer look.</p><p>“It’s just.” Richie frowns at her. <em>“My name is Richie Tozier. </em>That’s what it says. Are you seriously—are you fucking with me?”</p><p>Patty smiles at him. “It’s upside down, okay?”</p><p>“The joke <em>is</em> funny,” Bev agrees. She grabs a pen, scribbles <em>thanks :) </em>next to the improvements, and taps the tip of it against the URL. “Ben, did you find out what this leads to?”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s, like, one of those fan-made ghost-hunting pages.” Ben turns his computer around to show them, screen full of dark colors—red, black—and striking white font. “But it’s only for Derry.” After only Patty makes a sound of assent, he takes his laptop back and scrolls through it. “I searched up a few of these dates and names and it looks to be like whoever is—was—I don’t know if it’s still active—in charge of it was looking into all of these cold cases.”</p><p>“Before 2000,” Patty says, looking at her iPad, “Derry was a hotspot for child disappearances. The timeframes are off all over the place. Some say it happened every twenty-seven years like clockwork, others said kids went missing every summer. It’d been happening for so long people were convinced it started off in the late 1800s and then was replicated by copycat serial killers long before serial killers became popular…”</p><p>Richie takes a long sip of his drink. Wonders if he should’ve avoided caffeine altogether.</p><p>“What happened after 2000?” Bev asks.</p><p>Together, Patty, with her iPad, Stan, with his nose in about three different newspapers, and Ben, on this website, say, “Robert Gray confessed.”</p><p>“Who’s Robert Gray?”</p><p>“Derry’s Mr. Rogers,” Stan answers.</p><p>“Mr. Rogers is Derry’s Mr. Rogers,” Richie retorts immediately, already flustered.</p><p>“Yeah, obviously,” Stan says, “but Robert Gray was, like, <em>the </em>guy here for as long as he… until he confessed. A teacher, a tutor, a babysitter—you <em>wanted </em>him to take interest in your kid.”</p><p><em>Eddie, </em>Richie thinks, testing the name out. It feels foreign on his tongue, yet somehow familiar, like it is a name he should know. Was supposed to know. He thinks it again. <em>Eds. What happened to you?</em></p><p>And then, as a second, almost minor thought: <em>What almost happened to me?</em></p><p>“But, like, I’m guessing you really didn’t,” Bev offers up, leaning to read over Ben’s shoulder.</p><p>“No, that’s the thing,” Stan says. “You did. He wasn’t… at least he didn’t…”</p><p>“There’s no real proof he actually did anything,” Ben finishes for him. “It wasn’t until 1998 that he even—he came out of <em>nowhere,</em> which is why the Neibolt murders are on this site. They don’t think he did it—”</p><p>“—it says right here he was working in Satan’s name—”</p><p>“—yeah, okay, when? Was it November nineteen—”</p><p>“—ninety-eight, right after Eddie—”</p><p>“—Kaspbrak was found mutilated in the basement—”</p><p>“—<em>mutilated?”</em> Richie parrots back. “In <em>my</em> basement?”</p><p>“You don’t have a basement,” Stan says. He pushes a newspaper clipping across the table. The force of it knocks a few red stirrers over. Richie continues to slurp at his coffee, reading the headline quickly. <em>Unanimous board decision gives go-ahead for Neibolt house demolition. </em>“You have a graveyard.”</p><p>“Like <em>The Poltergeist,” </em>Ben says.</p><p>“Yeah, like—”</p><p>“—wait, I’m living on top of a <em>graveyard?”</em></p><p>“Yes and no,” Ben continues, the crease between his brows deepening. Bev notices and prods at it with the tip of a red fingernail. “They never found the bodies.”</p><p>“But you just said…”</p><p>“They found <em>parts </em>of Eddie Kaspbrak’s,” Ben explains. “He was the only one… and it’s speculated that—”</p><p>“—Gray wanted to get caught at this point.” Patty talks over him, finger sliding along her iPad screen. “He left those letters—”</p><p>“—like the Zodiac Killer? Was he the original Zod—”</p><p>“—no, because those couldn’t be traced to him <em>or </em>this crime,” Ben says loudly. “When he went on trial, he <em>did</em> blame Satan, so he got sent to Juniper Hill on insanity instead of jail, but the bodies were never found. Not even after they tore up the ground, so I won’t say Richie lives on a graveyard…”</p><p>“What <em>would </em>you say?”</p><p>“That you’re fucked,” Ben replies, “but that’s what you wanted, right?”</p><p>“I wanted to get haunted, not, like”—Richie can’t forget the odd sensations his dream gave him nor the immensity of the fear he felt when he lost control of his ankles—“<em>die.”</em></p><p>Stan clicks his tongue. “You chose to live in one of the most haunted places in New England,” he says. “It’s been documented and everything. Those ghosthunters couldn’t even last three hours—”</p><p>“—they’re <em>idiots,” </em>Bev declares. “I wouldn’t trust them to fucking… to <em>walk my dog.”</em></p><p>“You got a dog?”</p><p>“No, but I wouldn’t let them walk any dog, real or imaginary,” Bev says. “They walked in and the tiny one <em>cried</em> immediately, all <em>I sense so much anger here,</em> and I was like <em>all I sense is a deteriorating décor and that kitchen is so fucking ugly. </em>I don’t understand why Derry would just leave that house there all gross like that. It took them how long to knock it down?”</p><p>“Fifteen years,” Patty replies. “They didn’t get the okay to demolish it until 2015.”</p><p>“Why?” Bev asks on the cusp of a laugh. “Were we preserving memories or something? It’s a house. A lot of bad shit happened in there. Why wait for a board decision?”</p><p>“Money,” says Patty.</p><p>“Capitalism,” adds Stan.</p><p>“Maybe Robert Gray was a cover and the town did it,” Ben replies seriously, clicking through this <em>Derry Unsolved</em> website. “There’s some pretty weird shit in here. Police cover ups, local politics, even a gang lived in Derry for a time… Whoever went through all this trouble really believed there was something supernatural going on.”</p><p>“I mean,” Bev says, gesturing to Richie. “There definitely is. And over fifteen thousand people saw it live.”</p><p>Ben purses his lips, looking up from the screen. “Tell me about the dream again.”</p><p>“I was—he was running,” Richie replies. “I think it was the day he went missing.”</p><p>Stan searches the newspaper articles, ripping some, destroying others, and pulls one to the top. <em>“November twentieth,”</em> he reads, <em>“Edward Kaspbrak went for a morning run as he always did. When he wasn’t back by lunch, his mother reported him missing. Sonia Kaspbrak had a penchant for the dramatics, so her call was not taken seriously until she called back the next day.”</em></p><p>Bev blurts, “Dramatics?”</p><p>“I had access to his thoughts,” Richie says. “To, I dunno, the last few minutes of when he was alive, I guess? He was thinking about her. She didn’t sound so—great.”</p><p>“What happened next?”</p><p>“He ran too far out, I guess,” says Richie. “Ended up at the Barrens, so he was going to see if his friends were… somewhere, but the way he went, he ended up—he turned down Neibolt, which it seemed like he didn’t. Felt like he was being—”</p><p>“—led there?”</p><p>Richie nods. “It was abandoned but not. Something was in it. Something… inviting. It asked him what he was looking for and he said… he said <em>somewhere to belong,</em> I think, something along those lines, and essentially just ate him up.”</p><p>Patty pauses, fingers twitching. Stan mumbles something under his breath, searching wildly through his papers. Ben repeats Richie’s last sentence—<em>ate him up—</em>and types, sighs, types again.</p><p>Bev, unhelpful as ever, goes, “I think you should move.”</p><p>“I just <em>did,”</em> Richie replies.</p><p>“No, you should move out of that place immediately,” Bev clarifies. “You said you—he—<em>Eddie </em>got <em>eaten,</em> and some weird fog shit tried to rip off your ankles, and your first reaction is <em>let me gather all my friends at our favorite coffee shop for research, </em>not <em>I should move the fuck out of Maine?”</em></p><p>“And break the lease I just signed? No, thanks.” Coldness washes over Richie, makes him shiver, rub his hands together. He pulls his sleeves over his knuckles, coughs, and ducks his head to finish off his mocha. He can’t just move again, logistics and money and whatever that means for him aside, he <em>did</em> ask for this, pitched it to his team, who thought a funny side of the mysterious Neibolt house would be on brand for him. He can’t just—</p><p>He <em>wants </em>to be haunted, though for what reason is still to be determined. He was <em>terrified, </em>yes, but there was something… there <em>is</em> something keeping him from tucking his tail between his legs and fleeing.</p><p>Some sense of—is it responsibility?</p><p>“I don’t see anything about something eating him alive,” Ben says, regretfully. “Do you remember what it looked like? Some kind of descriptor I can use to—”</p><p>The voice that comes out of Richie is not entirely his own. It’s clipped, a little more forceful than his would ever be. “Let me try,” it says. “You’re not looking…” He clears his throat at Stan’s inquisitive glance and tries to let his arms move as easily as they normally would. He has no control over his body currently though he’s not sure why, but it feels much like his dream did.</p><p>Ben slides his computer over. Hazily Richie types, not sure what’s supposed to come from it; his fingers feel clunky, inexperienced against the keyboard. He maneuvers easily once he gets the hang of it. He all but clicks his tongue at Ben’s previous searches, a thought that’s not his own nor one he can grasp quickly enough to remember later. In what feels like hours but is really minutes, he comes to, a video file the only result of the search <em>“It.”</em></p><p>As jittery as he is, he presses play, and the annoying voices of those wannabe ghostbusters break the silence around them.</p><p>“Ugh,” Bev complains. “Them, really?”</p><p>“They’re on the site,” Richie says, “so they must’ve found something this researcher guy deems valid. It’s only three minutes long.”</p><p>Ben scoots closer, all but sitting on top of him. “Hey, wait,” he says. “There are three of them? I thought there were only two.”</p><p>“There are,” Bev says. “I hate them, but I watch everything they do.”</p><p>“Okay, wait.” Richie squints. “There’s Don and Sandy, but who is… who’s Adrian?”</p><p>Patty looks over his shoulder, cocking her head to the side. “I know they opened their first season with the Neibolt house, but there were only two, just Don and Sandy.”</p><p>“They’re holding hands,” Ben points out. “Don and this Adrian person, I mean.”</p><p>A guttural scream makes Richie jump, slamming his fingers against the keys to mute the video, and he swallows roughly when the trio crosses the threshold. He can’t hear anything, probably wouldn’t be able to with that fucking <em>squawking, </em>but one second these two guys were smiling at each other, joking it seems like, and the next a dark mass is swirling at the top of the broken steps, headed straight for—</p><p>Adrian shoves Don out of the way and is consumed whole. The only thing that remains of him is a small ring, bouncing off the floorboards. It falls between a crack and Richie’s mind whirls with graveyards and bodies, a wonder that’s forming, that is making sense but isn’t…</p><p>He says, “That’s what I saw in the dream.”</p><p>“It’s also what we saw on your Live,” Ben adds slowly, almost apologetically.</p><p>“That’s living in your house,” Patty says. “Sorry, I meant to pose that as a question.”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Richie answers slowly. “I guess. Behind the door, maybe. It’s only been a few days, though, and I know nothing about—none of you rushed to come help me unpack the way you rushed to help me research a ghost problem—”</p><p>“—more fun,” Bev says.</p><p>“You’re not even helping,” Stan retorts.</p><p>“I provide colorful commentary,” she replies primly, “given that Richie has been somewhat radio silent on that front.”</p><p>Richie blinks. Rewinds the video back forty-five seconds and almost feels like that thing is eating <em>him </em>up, like it had in his dream. Where do they go? What happens to them? “All I know is there’s <em>something </em>in my house,” he answers. “And someone. This Eddie person.”</p><p>“You called him Eds,” Bev points out.</p><p>Richie sniffs, looking away from her. “Yeah, I did. I don’t know why.”</p><p>Ben reaches over and scrolls beneath the video where hundreds of comments are posted.</p><p><em>It? What kind of name is It?<br/></em><em><strong>We don’t know what it is. Can’t give power to something without a name.<br/></strong></em>If it has no name and no origin, I’m assuming it’s been around for some time. Anyone have any info on this thing?<br/><em>Looks like some kind of evil. The type you cut out of someone. Or exorcise. But given the carnivorous way it attacks, I think it’s something entirely different.<br/></em>Where did the body go? Is this the same thing that killed all those kids in the nineties?<br/><em><strong>Robert Gray killed them.<br/></strong></em><strong>Robert Gray only came forward for one and even that was suspect. He looked completely deranged.<br/></strong><strong><em>That’s because he was.<br/></em></strong><strong>His prints weren’t even in the house or on the parts of that kid they found. If this thing was doing the killing, I can only imagine what else it can do.<br/></strong><strong><em>This is just a special effect for the show. A serial killer made the Neibolt House the way it was.<br/></em></strong>Then explain why no one’s ever heard of Adrian. Why he’s not on the show. Why he’s listed as deceased when you Google him.<br/><em>The show wasn’t for him. Had a genetic disorder.<br/></em><strong>Or he was killed on the premises. Theories include the murders were essentially hate crimes and Don is openly gay. Perhaps Adrian was, too.</strong></p><p>“Richie,” Patty begins, just as Ben asks Stan to look through the newspapers for anything about motives, “how’d you know to search for this in particular?”</p><p>“I didn’t,” Richie replies, and he knows how crazy it sounds to say, but… “Eddie did.”</p><p>“Kaspbrak?” Bev asks. She holds up the clipping with his likeness attached, what looks to be a photo from a holiday party. Richie glances at it, remembers the shadow of the figure in his doorway. The back of his neck. The shine of his eyes. “This guy? He’s dead.”</p><p>Richie nods. “I think he’s the one warning me,” he says.</p><p>“You’re being haunted by this guy?” Bev asks, peering down at the picture with new interest. “Huh. Guess your bloodthirsty demon twink fantasy is coming true.”</p><p>“I don’t think he’s a <em>bloodthirsty demon,” </em>Richie replies.</p><p>“Definitely a twink, though,” Bev teases.</p><p>Richie remembers his—no, Eddie’s—thoughts, the way his mother mocked him for hanging out with boys he hinted at being together. It affected him in a way that seemed… personal, the little bit of it Richie got to hear. He doesn’t know if he should mention anything, if that’s, like, breaking the small bit of privacy he—</p><p>Well. He did <em>haunt </em>him with this, so <em>is</em> it privacy?</p><p>“It’s the tiniest note, almost like an afterthought, but it reads that almost all the deaths were of <em>individuals with inclination to the same sex,” </em>Stan says, “though it’s hard to know for sure since some of them were literally, like, <em>six—”</em></p><p>Ben makes a small noise, closing the laptop screen with a finality that has Stan immediately stopping his perusal of the newspaper. “What’s that last note in that joke book say?”</p><p><em>“If you have any questions, Friday 7PM. Make spaghetti,” </em>Richie quotes, having memorized it.</p><p>“Guess that’s what you’ll be doing tomorrow,” Ben says.</p><p>“You guys coming over for dinner?” Richie asks.</p><p>Bev runs her fingers along the words, writing over them, and says, “I have no real proof of this, but I have a feeling he’ll only want to talk to you.”</p><p>“Report back, though,” Stan requests. “I need to know if I have to bust out my ghost-hunting gear to save your stupid ass.”</p><p>“You still have that?” Richie asks.</p><p>“Obviously, your mom handstitched those Ghostbusters costumes, I’m not gonna throw shit like that <em>out,”</em> Stan replies. “I had to take it out of storage the second you texted us you moved into that hellhole.”</p><p>“Aw, Stan, you do love me,” Richie coos. “I’m getting another coffee. Anyone want?”</p><hr/><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>haha hey anyone know any good recipes for a ghost requesting spaghetti???</em></p><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>like, logically, would he want spaghetti alla puttanesca or spaghetti aglio e olio… how much garlic is Too Much garlic????</em></p><p><strong>bevvy @beaverlyswamp<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH u just looking up Italian dishes and naming em?</em></p><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@beaverlyswamp I’m asking the FANS, not you.</em></p><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@beaverlyswamp and fuck u I have culture</em></p><p><strong>Stan. @StanleyUris<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH @beaverlyswamp your idea of culture is copying the spaghetti tacos from iCarly. Which I forbid you to do. We want the ghost to be helpful, not disgusted by you.</em></p><p><strong>Ben @hanscomben<br/></strong> <em>@stan_uris he already lives with Richie… isn’t too late for that?</em></p><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>I didn’t ask to get dragged by my friends, I asked my fans for advice on what to make a ghost for dinner, what’s so difficult about this?</em></p><p><strong>hannah @richiesjawline<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH there’s really no such thing as too much garlic… but maybe try and keep it simple with a red meat sauce</em></p><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@richiesjawline THANK YOU HANNAH</em></p><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@richiesjawline …how do I make a red meat sauce</em></p><p><strong>hannah @richiesjawline<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH check your dms :)</em></p><p><strong>kim @rchtzr<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH ghost date???? 👀 </em></p><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@rchtzr strictly professional 😞 </em></p><p><strong>kim @rchtzr<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH but it’s the one that basically saved ur life </em></p><p><strong>richie: live from a haunted house @TRASHM0UTH<br/></strong> <em>@rchtzr so far he’s the only one I know</em></p><p><strong>kim @rchtzr<br/></strong> <em>@TRASHM0UTH interesting…………</em></p><p><strong>Richie Tozier Updates @trashmouthtweets<br/></strong> <em>This just in: Richie is still alive.</em></p><p><strong>Stan. @StanleyUris<br/></strong> <em>@trashmouthtweets Unfortunately.</em> <strong><br/></strong></p><hr/><p>Richie’s still not fully unpacked when he finds himself standing in front of his oven. He either can’t find his strainer or doesn’t own one and most of his pots and pans are dented from the move.</p><p>What’s worse, or pathetic, or downright deranged, maybe, is that he had to go to the fucking <em>supermarket</em> to pick up food he doesn’t even—he’s not in the mood for spaghetti, but this stupid ghost is, and… and… and now he’s mincing garlic because some girl named Hannah with a twitter dedicated to his fuckin’ <em>jawline</em> told him there’s no such thing as too much garlic! And he’s already cried a little over onions, he never learned how to cut those correctly, and his kitchen’s a fucking mess. He’s going to have to sit on a <em>box</em> instead of a chair, and all because his friends aren’t willing to come over—not before the ghost and most definitely not after all this.</p><p>Hell, he shouldn’t even be here, but he can’t get himself to leave. And he’s thought about it. Multiple times. Most of them in the pasta aisle at the supermarket.</p><p>He grits his teeth and sniffles, looks away, the simmering garlic and onion smelling good but still somehow making him feel terrible, and swirls around when his refrigerator door slams shut.</p><p>Okay, he could’ve forgotten to close it earlier. He only swatted at it with his foot, hands full of vegetables, and—</p><p>—and there’s a tall, lanky kid in a grey long-sleeve shirt and these… they’re not <em>tiny, </em>per se, but the way these red shorts mold against his thighs—they’re literally unseemly. Richie feels almost scandalized by this, like it’s the Victorian era and he’s just seen a woman’s ankles.</p><p>“You don’t have any parmesan,” the kid says. “How do you plan on making spaghetti without cheese?”</p><p>“You are—very pushy for a ghost,” Richie finds himself saying. “Like, no manners. Just <em>make me spaghetti </em>and <em>you have no parmesan.</em> You should’ve made me a list.”</p><p>Eddie—<em>it has to be Eddie, of course it’s Eddie—</em>turns to face him, frowning. “I’m a ghost,” he says. “Of course I have no manners. I haven’t had anyone to speak to in years.”</p><p>“I…” Richie is momentarily dumbstruck by the face he sees. Oil pops behind him, garlic no doubt burning, and clears his throat, as if <em>that </em>will help the burgeoning panic he feels—and not because Eddie’s dead, but because Eddie’s <em>cute. </em>“Why does it matter anyway? It’s not like you can eat this.” And then, he tentatively tacks on, “Can you?”</p><p>“No,” Eddie replies shortly, “but I can smell it.”</p><p>“And you just want to smell… spaghetti?”</p><p>Eddie crosses his arms. “Yes,” he answers. “Don’t judge me for it if you’re doing it, Richie.”</p><p>“Okay, <em>Eddie,” </em>Richie retorts, turning around to add in the tomato sauce. His cheeks burn something fierce and he hopes Ghost Boy over there doesn’t notice. Maybe he can blame the heat of the stove, but, like, seriously, why does he look so good? Shouldn’t he look, like, what did they say? <em>Mutilated? </em>There’s hardly a scar on him, and don’t get Richie started on his hair. “What are you doing here?”</p><p>“I smelled the spaghetti,” Eddie answers, as if that’s enough.</p><p>“Can you only smell spaghetti?”</p><p>“No, I smelled the pizza you ordered the other night, and the soy sauce you spilled all over your sheets, and—” Eddie stops, almost looking bashful, before clearing his throat. “I smelled the spaghetti,” he repeats. “You called. I answered. I imagine you have questions.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Richie stirs the sauce, then dumps the chopped meat into it, letting it cook the rest of the way. “Question one, part one: Can you leave this house?”</p><p>“Sometimes,” Eddie replies.</p><p>“Question one, part two: Did you possess me at the coffee shop?”</p><p>Fluttering activity behind him makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up right, but Richie clenches his jaw and devotes his time to counting the bubbles that boil and pop in the sauce. He feels Eddie come up close, that same frigidness engulfing only his back, and then he steps away.</p><p>“Only because your friends were going down the wrong path,” Eddie says. He sounds apologetic. “I don’t normally… well, I’ve never had anyone to—I’m not the kind of person who does something without consent. I want you to know that.”</p><p>“Oh, thank goodness,” Richie says blankly. “I’ve found the only ghost concerned with—with conventional social practices.”</p><p>“Okay, I don’t know what that means,” Eddie replies, “but I only did it because they were going to open and shut the research on Robert Gray and he didn’t do it.”</p><p>Richie twists his neck, sees Eddie fiddling with the hem of his shorts <em>(ugh). </em>“So who did?”</p><p>Eddie meets his gaze, eyes dark—probably darker than they ought to be, seeing as he’s dead and all—and… is he… no, he can’t be… <em>scared? </em>Richie leans closer, peering at the expression, and, with the tight grip he has on the pot, almost pours pasta sauce all over himself. “I can’t say.”</p><p>“You explicitly said to meet you with spaghetti at seven <em>today </em>if I had questions and now you <em>can’t say—”</em></p><p>“—not here, we’re too close,” Eddie says in a rush. “The smells aren’t just for me, they’re for—they—look, just meet me upstairs.”</p><p>“And leave this here? I’m literally <em>cooking, </em>Eds.”</p><p>“It’s… cooking isn’t… Jesus Christ,” Eddie snaps, walking through him and flicking the burner to low. “It’s like you’ve never cooked before in your life.”</p><p>“I had to ask someone how to make this,” Richie says, and then, yelping, “Will you <em>quit</em> walking through me? I’m fucking freezing, dude!”</p><p>“Upstairs,” Eddie orders and disappears.</p><p>“Did he just…” Richie waves his hand tentatively where Eddie had been, feels nothing, and sighs. “Just—<em>poof! </em>and I have to climb all those stairs to—” Richie tilts his head and shouts, <em>“Where am I going?!”</em></p><p>Eddie’s voice filters down: “Just get up here!”</p><p>Richie mocks his voice, a little high-pitched, a lot bossy, and double checks the burner. There’s no way a ghost could just—but he did, lowering the heat to literally nothing. But he’s, like, not real? No, he’s real. He’s real, just not physical, so, like, how did he—</p><p>
  <em>“Richie!”</em>
</p><p>“I’m <em>coming,” </em>he yells back, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He sends a quick text to the group—<em>tiny little ghost is here, if you don’t hear from me in an hour I have joined him in the afterlife—</em>and hurries up the stairs, unaware of where he’s supposed to be headed. It’s not like there are a lot of rooms up here.</p><p>Fingers, warm and hard, wrap around Richie’s elbow, sending his heart into overdrive straight into his throat. His shoulder bangs into the wall once, twice, three times, until Eddie lets out a little <em>fuck,</em> and the oddest sensation comes over him. It’s like he’s dissolving, turning into nothing, and Richie is a little bit too afraid to look down at his own body, to see what’s happening to it. He squeezes his eyes shut as he’s finally pulled <em>through </em>the wall, a woodsy, musty, almost dirty smell filling his nostrils, and then with an audible <em>pop, </em>he’s full again, sitting in the dark, partially empty closet in his bedroom.</p><p>“Alright, that was… was it necessary?” Richie asks, rubbing his aching arm. “You could’ve just said to meet you in my—”</p><p>“—no!” Eddie yelps, shooting forward and slapping his palm against Richie’s mouth. He expects it to go straight through him like before, but it’s a solid weight on his face.</p><p>Richie inhales sharply; Eddie’s hand smells like lavender-scented lotion. He lets his eyes close for a beat, the smell washing over him, calming him, and then he licks Eddie’s hand, forcing him to recoil.</p><p>“Ew,” Eddie complains, nose wrinkling. “You don’t even know where I’ve been.”</p><p>“I’ve eaten food off the ground,” Richie says nonchalantly. He coughs, avoiding Eddie’s gaze, and looks around his closet. He hasn’t done a single thing to unpack, but all of his clothes are here and Richie doesn’t think that awful black mist cares enough to make sure Richie’s clothes are put away. “Oh, hey, there’s my jacket. I was wondering where it went.”</p><p>“It rained the other day and you left it on the floor,” Eddie says. “That’s gross. I hung it up.”</p><p>“You’re less like a ghost and more of like a… helpful maid,” Richie comments. He runs his fingers along the edge of a sleeve. Wonders where Eddie touched. “How can you even do that?”</p><p>“Practice,” Eddie answers. “When you’ve got as much time as I do, you learn a lot.”</p><p>Richie blurts, “Like what?”</p><p>“Anything really,” Eddie says. “I’ve been here for—a long time, but that’s not why we’re… that’s not why you made the spaghetti. What do you want to know?”</p><p>“Maybe I don’t want anything,” Richie offers. “Maybe I made the spaghetti because I want to be your friend.”</p><p>Eddie quirks a brow. “You forget I can see everything you do here.”</p><p><em>“Everything?” </em>Richie repeats slowly.</p><p>“I’m not, like, spying on you,” Eddie says quickly, “but we do occupy the same space.”</p><p>“Basically roommates,” Richie agrees. He smiles suddenly, leaning forward, which sends Eddie scrambling back. His head hits the closet door with a thud. Still solid, then. “Tell me, Eddie baby, what spaces do we occupy at the same time?”</p><p>Eddie’s cheeks flush magnificently, gray and bloodless in the center, but pink around the edges, like there’s still something left in him. Richie cracks a knuckle to keep himself from reaching out to touch. He’d have to ask first, after all: this is Eddie “The Consent Ghost” Kaspbrak. “This closet, for one,” he says, words rushing together, “where I brought you to answer your question.”</p><p>Richie knows a losing battle when he sees one, but still can’t help the way he asks, “Aw, we aren’t here to play Seven Minutes in Heaven?”</p><p>“Seeing as this is a gateway to hell,” Eddie replies easily, “no.”</p><p>“Excuse me, what?”</p><p>The dynamic changes as Eddie smiles, bright and brilliant, seemingly becoming larger than life. Larger than <em>Richie. </em>“I told you,” he says. “It wasn’t Robert Gray. Robert Gray tried to save me—that’s why he is the way he is—but when It wants you, there’s no escaping.”</p><p>Richie’s voice is hushed. “What’s It?”</p><p>“What I showed you in your dream,” Eddie replies, just as quiet. “What they didn’t release for that show. What tried to drag you down.”</p><p>“The… the black cloud-thing?”</p><p>Eddie nods. “It has many forms, but the only proper thing to call it is, well, It, because it takes away its power. It can’t find you if you don’t call it by its name.”</p><p>“And it… it wanted you?” Richie asks. “Back then?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie says. “It feasted on people who question, who crave, who want to live outside the boxes society has already put them in.”</p><p>“But I know who I am,” Richie replies. “I don’t—I’m not—you can’t be seriously implying this thing is interested in me, are you?”</p><p>“There must be something you’re worried about,” Eddie says. “Afraid of. I was constantly looking for a home and I ran past the house so many times eventually It turned it into what I wanted.”</p><p>“The old house isn’t standing anymore.”</p><p>“You can’t get rid of something that never lived in these walls to begin with,” Eddie says softly. “I wasn’t kidding when I said you need to leave. It won’t be safe here the longer you stay.”</p><p>“But <em>why?” </em>Richie demands.</p><p>“It’s been waiting for you,” Eddie admits. He brushes the hair out of his face, gaze unreadable, and Richie doesn’t like how distant Eddie is now, not like he’d been very open before, but it almost felt like… “I’ve been—” Eddie’s head snaps to the side, his body fading at the edges, like he’s letting go of the power it takes to make him physical. “I spent too long here. I’m sorry,” he says, and he looks upset. “I know you expected more, but you can’t expect me to be able to answer when you talk to me like—when—I always had a hard time with your—” He bites his lip. “I’m sorry. We can… Buy alphabet magnets. We can talk like that. It can’t read. I’ll be back when I can.”</p><p>Eddie reaches his hand out like he wants to touch Richie’s face. Richie closes his eyes as his fingertips get close enough, as their coldness invades his skin, and then they’re gone, and Eddie’s gone, and Richie is sitting alone in his closet beneath a damp hoodie.</p><hr/><p>
  <em> <strong>five idiots, one chat</strong> </em>
</p><p><strong> <em>(7:34) tiny little ghost is here, if you don’t hear from me in an hour I have joined him in the afterlife</em><br/></strong><span class="u">(8:35) did richie want to be buried or cremated?<br/></span><em>(8:35) ur giving up on him that quickly?<br/></em><span class="u">(8:36) it’s been exactly an hour. I haven’t heard from him. He must be in the afterlife.<br/></span><span class="u"><em><strong>(8:36) oh relax!!! I’m sure he’s fine. It’s just the tiny Eddie ghost, what could he possibly do? Dimple him to death???<br/></strong></em></span><span class="u">(8:37) your obsession with Eddie’s cheeks is upsetting to me<br/></span><span class="u"><em><strong>(8:37) sorry babylove your cheeks are also just as adorable!<br/></strong></em></span><em>(8:39) no but seriously Rich you can’t just say something like that and not respond after an hour. Do we need to see if Stan’s growth spurt can fit in the ghostbusters costume?<br/></em><em><strong>(8:45) nah just grab the little backpack since I am apparently living in a gateway to hell<br/></strong></em><em>(8:45) sorry?<br/></em><span class="u">(8:45) where are you?<br/></span><em><strong>(8:46) my bedroom closet<br/></strong></em><strong><em>(8:46) and uh<br/></em></strong><strong><em>(8:46) besides the gateway to hell bomb he dropped I think he knows me?<br/></em></strong><strong><em>(8:47) what’s worse is I feel like I know him which is<br/></em></strong><strong><em>(8:47) crazy, right?<br/></em></strong><span class="u">(8:48) he died when you were, what, 4? You can’t possibly know him. He’d be forty something by now<br/></span><em>(8:48): must be a real friendly ghost if u feel like u know him after an hour<br/></em>(8:52) About that…<br/><em><strong><span class="u">(8:52) ben you are the scariest texter<br/></span></strong></em>(8:54) I went back to the library today. Searched some local history. I have something you all probably want to see. Meet at the coffee shop tomorrow. As early as you can.</p><hr/><p>Now that Richie knows there’s someone else in the house with him, he spends most of his time, after he emerges from the closet, searching for him. For a sign that he’s… not imagining things. The texts in his phone prove as much, as does his hasty Google search. <em>29 Neibolt Street: The Most Haunted House in the World. </em>He’d known that going into it.</p><p>But that’s all he knows.</p><p>He types <em>Eddie Kaspbrak + 29 Neibolt Street</em> and peruses those results, stuffing his face with slightly burnt pasta sauce. There’s nothing new there, just dates and more pictures, which Richie embarrassingly stares at, and a so-called tell-all from his mother, Sonia, who blames the <em>miscreants </em>he <em>played with,</em> like he was thirteen and not twentysomething when he died.</p><p>Excerpts from the <em>News</em> give little to no information, not even the gruesome snapshots they so normally use when something big happens. Just everything Patty had told them earlier, literally down to the last period. Except…</p><p>Richie drops his fork and enlarges the screen to read what seems to be a throwaway line at the tail end of what ended up being an inconsequential article. <em>Kaspbrak is not the first of his friend group to die in this house, which leads this journalist to wonder: Will he be the last? This so-called “It” reigned supreme in the eighties, beginning with the death of George “Georgie” Denbrough, brother to William “Bill” Denbrough, Kaspbrak’s best friend, and ending, quite suddenly, with—</em></p><p>Richie’s phone glitches in his hand. The webpage closes out suddenly, the screen turning black so suddenly it’s like it’d overheated, or died, or—</p><p>“Don’t,” says Eddie’s voice.</p><p>Richie swivels around, expecting him to be by his side, but sees nothing. No one. Just boxes upon boxes and a sink full of dirty dishes. “Don’t what?”</p><p>“Search for answers you’re not ready for,” Eddie whispers in his ear. It sends a shiver down his spine, an unfamiliar feeling settling at the base of his spine. Or is it familiar? Does he… is this…</p><p>Richie throws his arm around, searching, trying to find the space Eddie inhabits, invisible as he is, trying to prove to himself he’s not crazy.</p><p>“You’re fine,” Eddie tells him, materializing enough for Richie to wrap his fingers around his wrist. “I’m real. You’re real. You just can’t—don’t <em>look </em>for things, Rich. Promise me you’ll just—you’ll get out of here.”</p><p>Richie looks up at him, half a person, floating from the waist up, and says, “Aren’t you lonely?”</p><p>“Lonely?” Eddie repeats.</p><p>“I don’t see any other ghosts around,” Richie says. “Aren’t you—you’ve had all this time alone, and you want me to leave?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie says, definitively.</p><p>“And if I don’t want to?” Richie poses. “You gonna scare me out?”</p><p>“I don’t want to see you get hurt,” Eddie admits, something emerging in his gaze. Richie tries to hold it, but Eddie looks away as if he knows he’ll get caught in something. “Not a…” He licks his lips. “Break your lease. No one cares. Everyone always does. Be lucky I’m the ghost you got. Adrian was a menace before he crossed over.”</p><p>“You’ve been here for how long? Why haven’t you crossed over?”</p><p>Eddie blinks down at him, lashes long and face soft, and something sparks inside Richie, something warm and aware. Something… He tingles, but he doesn’t know why. “I had to be sure of something.”</p><p>Richie clicks his tongue. “Ah, unfinished business, I see. Planning on haunting your mother or something? She sounded crazy, not gonna lie.”</p><p>“Nothing like that,” Eddie says, pressing his thumb, a stunning combination of warm and cool, to the corner of Richie’s mouth. “You have spaghetti sauce all over your face.”</p><p>“Oh,” Richie mumbles. His ears burn; he’s glad his hair is long enough to cover them, as red as they probably are. “That happens a lot.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, almost sadly. Or is it wistfully? Richie needs to pull out his thesaurus. His dictionary. He has no idea what to make of anything this ghost says or does. Shouldn’t he be scary? Why is he so <em>nice? </em>“May I ask why you’re eating cold spaghetti at two in the morning? Go to sleep.”</p><p>Richie snorts, rubbing at his face with a napkin. “Who are you? My mother?”</p><p>“You get cranky when you go to sleep late.”</p><p>“I, well… that’s true,” Richie replies. He pushes his chair out, dumps his dishes in the sink—he’ll deal with all of that tomorrow—and turns back to face Eddie, still hovering as half a body. “Are you, um. What are you gonna do?”</p><p>“What I always do,” Eddie replies.</p><p>“Which is what?” Richie asks. “Guard the house from the bowels of the underworld?”</p><p>Eddie rolls his eyes. “Clean your messes,” he retorts. “Shit is just gonna stick to your pots and pans if you leave them like that.”</p><p>“You don’t have to—I’ll just soak ‘em and wash them in the morning.” Richie runs the water, squirting globs of dish soap into each dish. “I don’t want you—just because I’m messy doesn’t mean you have to—”</p><p>
  <em>(“Gimme your hands, Jesus Christ, you don’t know what kind of germs were on that thing and now you want to touch your face? I can’t believe you’d—”)</em>
</p><p>“Stop,” Eddie snaps.</p><p>“Stop what?” Richie asks, blood thrumming. <em>What was that?</em></p><p>“Looking for answers.”</p><p>“I was literally thinking about how you don’t need to clean up my messes,” Richie replies. “Like, I made this. Not you. It’s not your responsibility—”</p><p>
  <em>(“Whose gonna be responsible for you if not me? You don’t think about the consequences of your actions, like, ever, and I’m scared you’re going to—“)</em>
</p><p>“Richie, <em>stop,” </em>Eddie begs. He bites down on his lower lip, an action that has Richie uncomfortably flustered, the pillowy flesh growing redder beneath his teeth. “I need you to… This was a mistake. I have to go—”</p><p>“—no, wait, please,” Richie interrupts, voice all but squeaking. “I’m sorry. I won’t… whatever I’m doing, I’ll stop. I don’t want to upset you. I just—you don’t have to do any of that. It’s fine.”</p><p>Eddie blinks, wide-eyed. “Okay.”</p><p>He’s suddenly nervous, Richie is, twisting his sleeves around his fingers, and it has nothing to do with the weirdness of the day—of the research, of It, of this ghost…</p><p>“Do you wanna come with me?” he asks. Coughs. “I’m probably not going to fall asleep anytime soon, so I was just gonna watch Netflix. If you’re interested. And your prior obligations aren’t… pressing.”</p><p>Eddie’s gaze darts from Richie to the basement door and back again. Slowly, his edges harden, sharpen, and his lower half emerges, long, toned legs popping out of these unlawful shorts, calves tucking into white tube socks and slightly beat-up sneakers. That seems an answer all on its own, but Richie waits for the verbal confirmation before moving, afraid Eddie’ll spook like some sort of animal.</p><p>“What are you gonna watch?” Eddie asks.</p><p>“Not sure yet,” Richie replies, “but I did notice you were halfway through season one of <em>The Good Place…”</em></p><p>Eddie flushes. “I’m not—”</p><p>Richie snorts. “I know it was you,” he says. “It’s fine. I’m not… do you wanna watch it? I haven’t seen it in a while.”</p><p>“I mean, you’re the only who wants to watch…” Eddie trails off. “Okay, fine, don’t look at me like that. If you don’t have anything in mind, yeah, I’d like to keep—<em>I said stop looking at me like that!”</em></p><p>“Cute,” Richie giggles in response.</p><p>“What’d you…?” Eddie freezes, swallowing so hard and so visibly Richie sees it from where he’s standing. “Maybe I shouldn’t. I can go—”</p><p>“—no, please, sorry, I didn’t mean…” Richie fumbles for words, squeezing his sleeves tight enough to keep his hands from trembling. “I just meant—it’s just you’re so worked up over it. I don’t care. It’s just a show.”</p><p>Eddie looks over at the door again, brow furrowed, then shrugs. “Okay, but only because I’d hate for you to be lonely.”</p><p>“Oh, great,” Richie replies. “You wanna smell, like, popcorn or something, or do you—oh, you’re gone.”</p><p>Some force has Richie making it anyway, this tiny spark in the back of his brain that tells him <em>yes, Eddie would like popcorn, and he likes it when it’s sweet, </em>which is weird, but maybe Eddie can also astral project his thoughts into Richie’s head like he took over his fucking body earlier. Richie thinks nothing of it, moving around his kitchen, and dumps an excessive amount of both sugar and cinnamon into his warm popcorn. Upstairs, he hears his TV start up, so loud in the uneasy quiet that remains in Eddie’s absence.</p><p>Richie, for some reason, hurries through the kitchen, going the long way to avoid that door, and leaves the lights on—all of them—as he loudly climbs the stairs to the second floor.</p><p>“Couldn’t stand to wait for me,” he complains, shutting the door behind him. “You can sit on my bed, you know. It’s big enough for two. I promise I don’t bite.”</p><p>Eddie quirks a brow. “You don’t?”</p><p>“Not unless you ask nicely,” Richie amends. He pats the mattress beside him. “I don’t know how comfortable it is to be a ghost or to be a ghost sitting on a box, but I can imagine this bed is better.”</p><p>“Only because I made it for you,” Eddie quips, appearing cross-legged next to him. “Who knows what it’d look like if you’d gotten your hands on it first?”</p><p>“True,” Richie says. “Thanks for that. It’s really nicely done, these corners and all.”</p><p>“You kick in your sleep,” Eddie replies absentmindedly, “so tucking in the sheets like that keeps your feet from getting cold. You’d always shove them in—” He coughs loudly. Sniffs. “You complain a lot in the mornings.”</p><p>Richie nods. “Seems like you really are spying on me, Eddie Spaghetti.”</p><p>
  <em>“Rich.”</em>
</p><p>“You can’t get mad at me about that one!” Richie insists. “You <em>asked</em> for spaghetti. You walked right into it.”</p><p>Eddie glances at him, gaze incredibly fond for just a moment before the dark of his eyes shutters closed, shielding his emotions from view. Still, something unfurls inside Richie. Something loosens. He smiles at him, lopsided and with a popcorn kernel no doubt stuck between his teeth, and places the bowl between them.</p><p>“Don’t know what you can do with this, but.” Richie shrugs. “I made it for you.”</p><p>“I don’t think I can eat it,” Eddie says sadly.</p><p>“Have you tried?” Richie asks. “You can smell.”</p><p>“That’s completely different,” Eddie defends.</p><p>“But why can you smell if you can’t eat?” Richie prods. “That’s a cruel form of punishment.” He holds out a handful, fingers smeared in butter and coated in little grains of sugar. “Make that body of yours corporeal again and try.”</p><p>Eddie hesitates, lifting his own hand where he leaves it hovering over Richie’s for far too long. Like, three scenes of <em>The Good Place-</em>long. Richie drops the popcorn back into the bowl, says, “Open up,” and drops a few pieces onto Eddie’s tongue.</p><p>He falls back on his haunches. Waiting. Watching.</p><p>Eddie’s face twists. His nostrils flare. His jaw moves, his throat bobs, and he opens his mouth, empty.</p><p>Then: “It didn’t go <em>through </em>me, did it?”</p><p>And: “What was that? It was good.”</p><p>And: “Oh my god.”</p><p>And: “Did you put cinnamon and sugar on the popcorn?”</p><p>And: “Wait.”</p><p>Eddie digs his own hand into the bowl, popcorn falling from his fist, and shoves it all in his mouth. “This is so good,” he says, or Richie thinks he says. “How did I not know I could eat? I forgot… I forgot this is how I liked my popcorn. All sweet and…” He chews hard, not bothering to finish his sentence.</p><p>Richie tilts his head. “You forgot?”</p><p>“I haven’t eaten in, like, twenty years, dude,” Eddie replies, digging into the bowl again. “I only knew the spaghetti smells would distract It enough for me to talk to you. I don’t even know if I <em>like</em> spaghetti.”</p><p>“You do,” says Richie reflexively.</p><p>“How do you know that?” Eddie asks.</p><p>“I don’t… I just do,” Richie replies, scratching his nose. “You really don’t know what you liked to eat? You didn’t tell me you like your popcorn like this?”</p><p>Eddie shakes his head. “I didn’t know you were making popcorn.”</p><p>“Oh,” Richie murmurs. “Lucky guess.”</p><p>“Guess?” Eddie repeats. “You don’t like your popcorn like this? Didn’t you make it for yourself?”</p><p>Richie tugs his lip between his teeth and gnaws. “No,” he says slowly. “I—made it for you. I just eat mine with a shitton of butter.”</p><p>Eddie pulls his hands out of the bowl so quickly Richie imagines the snap of bone he hears. “You just… <em>knew?”</em></p><p>Richie nods, just once.</p><p>“I can’t stay here,” Eddie blurts, already starting to fade. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I—”</p><p>Richie’s hand shoots out, almost without his brain’s permission. “Eddie, no,” he pleads just as insistently as Eddie tries to leave, unraveling at the seams, it feels like. Asking for more than he ought. Wanting something that’s entirely impossible, something he doesn’t even have a name for, something—</p><p>
  <em>(“I know it’s not a lot and your mom won’t approve, but I can’t imagine my life with anyone else—”)</em>
</p><p>“Let go of me, Richie,” Eddie says softly.</p><p>“Just phase out,” Richie retorts, “it’s the only way I will.”</p><p>Eddie’s hand twitches like he wants to, but his fingers only twist, hand forcing Richie’s farther down his arm so he can hook his thumb around him. Richie’s pulse must be hammering; he feels it in Eddie’s arm. “You have to stop,” Eddie whispers. “Please.”</p><p>“I’m not <em>doing anything,” </em>Richie says back.</p><p>“You are,” Eddie snaps. His eyes flash black, like he has the capability of being some terrible horror-demon, but then they’re brown again—brown, and big, and wide. Richie thinks he falls into them.</p><p>
  <em>Richie thinks he’s fallen into them before. Over and over.</em>
</p><p><em>“You are,” </em>Eddie repeats.</p><p>“What, you’re reading my mind now?” Richie asks. “Do we know each other? Was I right? This isn’t just that you’re a very friendly ghost haunting me, is it? What aren’t you telling me?”</p><p>Eddie lets go of him, leaving a cold burn where his fingers had once been, and cups his cheeks, leaning forward so Richie can smell the intoxicating mix of sugar and death, of cinnamon and decay. “I can’t watch you get hurt again, Richie. I <em>won’t.”</em></p><p>“Again?” Richie parrots. “What does that—<em>Eddie.”</em></p><p>“I have to go,” Eddie says again. “This was so selfish of me. I’m sorry. I just… I never managed that total possession thing and I can’t get you to do anything you don’t want to, but it’s not safe for you here. I made it unsafe for you because I…” He swallows. Looks away. “Please consider getting out of here.”</p><p>“Where will you go?” Richie asks.</p><p>“Nowhere,” says Eddie. “This is where I stay, but you—”</p><p>“—if this is where you are, it’s where I am.”</p><p>“Stop that,” Eddie chastises. “You just met me.”</p><p>“No, I didn’t,” Richie retorts, “did I?” He’s surprised Eddie hasn’t completely made himself invisible, fucking off to wherever it is he goes when he’s not… <em>here, </em>but he’ll take it. “You know what Ben’s going to tell us all tomorrow, don’t you?”</p><p>Eddie grits his teeth, jaw going taut. “You can’t remember.”</p><p>“I think I already am,” Richie says. “There’s a reason I moved here.”</p><p>“Yeah, it was dirt cheap and you thought you could make a bit out of it,” Eddie reminds him. The tremor in his voice doesn’t sell it.</p><p>“Eddie…” Richie murmurs. “29 Neibolt Street… Eddie… Eds—”</p><p>
  <em>(“Don’t call me that! You know I hate it when you call me that!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“No,” Richie says, “I don’t think you do.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddie, younger than he is now, presently, in front of Richie, blushes.)</em>
</p><p>“Stop,” Eddie begs, those eyes filling with tears he can’t (won’t?) (can he?) shed, fingers digging into the skin by Richie’s ears. “Stop, stop, stop. The more you remember, the more It awakens, and it already got Bill again, and I can’t—”</p><p>“What the fuck does that <em>mean?”</em> Richie yelps.</p><p>“It means you need to leave,” Eddie snaps, mean this time. “You need to take your boxes and go. Get out of here. I don’t know why you keep coming back to Derry, but you have to<em> stop.”</em></p><p>“Because you’re here,” Richie replies simply, words that make no and all sense to him. “I’ll go wherever you are. You know that.”</p><p>“Richie—”</p><p>“—Eddie—”</p><p>A roar sounds beneath them, shaking the house from the bottom up. Something falls over, one of Richie’s many boxes, no doubt, a resounding crash echoing through the empty building, reverberating off the walls. Shouts—no, yells—no, <em>screams, </em>terrified and pained and desperate, rise until they fill Richie’s head, stuffing the space between his ears. It’s all he hears, all he feels, terror running through his veins instead of blood. It feels like his bones snap, elbow disconnected from his arm, spine in two, ribs cracked down the middle, his heart beating a fruitless battle to stay alive.</p><p>
  <em>“Look,” the kid Richie saw in the paper, the photograph with Eddie, from 1998, “you don’t have to come in with me, but what happens when another Georgie goes missing, or another Betty, or another Ed Corcoran, or… one of us? Are you just gonna pretend it isn’t happening like everyone else in this town? Because I can’t. I go home and all I see is that Georgie isn’t there. His clothes, his toys, his stupid stuffed animals… but he isn’t. So, walking into that house, for me, it’s easier than walking into my own.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And the house—it’s old, decrepit, falling apart in more ways than one. The lawn is littered with garbage, debris, broken bottles and other unmentionables. Richie knows this is a place where no one would dare find them. So why are they getting ready to go in? Why aren’t they at the pool, or the arcade, or worrying about how fast summer is fading? He and Eddie could be doing anything other than this.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Bill’s kid brother got lured here, and Bill’s kid brother is dead, and Bill thinks the rumors are true, that this house is haunted, and his brother’s murderer is in here.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Armed with bags of rock salt Ben pulled from his parents’ garage and an exorcism Bev only partially knows in Latin, Bill thinks they can kill the thing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But he was wrong.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They were wrong.</em>
</p><p>Richie gasps, trying to find breath, feels what he thinks is the feather-light touch of Eddie’s mouth on his forehead, and wakes up, chest tight, panting, alone.</p><p>His notebook lies open by his side, words scribbled large and hurried, paper ripped where the pen went in too hard. Dark liquid smears the page beneath them, think and wet like blood.</p><p>
  <em>WHATEVER YOU DO DON’T LET YOURSELF REMEMBER.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>anyway i hope you enjoy. please entertain me, i've been locked in my house for 14 days (3 to go!!!) because my entire family BUT ME tested positive for covid. i'm going insane</p></blockquote></div></div>
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